


Flight

by obstinate_as_an_allegory



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Captive Musketeers, D'Artagnan to the rescue, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, grumpy concussed Athos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 06:14:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4553856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinate_as_an_allegory/pseuds/obstinate_as_an_allegory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos has a headache, and has always hated this part of France. Everyone else is preoccupied with the heavily armed rebels trying to kill them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A tree’s bark is rough against the back of his head; if he leans there hard enough the rest of the forest might stop woozily tilting about. Athos breathes and squints at the tree opposite, and the contents of his skull squirm black with pain. Porthos’ gloved thumb swipes at the blood on his temple.

‘You with me? Athos, you with me?’

Athos’ stomach roils. ‘Mm,’ he says, and tries to steel himself to run again.

‘Look sick,’ Porthos says doubtfully. He holds him in place by the shoulder so that he can inspect the side of Athos’ head critically.

‘Mm,’ Athos says again, since anything else seems like an outrageous effort just now. He focuses on the sleeve of Porthos’ jacket, which is glistening dark with blood. He frowns, and snatches clumsily at his friend’s elbow – he can _smell_ the blood, this close, and he’s breathing carefully, carefully around the nausea in his throat.

 ‘S’fine,’ Porthos mutters obstinately, following his look. ‘S’alright.’

All of them are a mess; this whole mission was a disaster from the outset. The north east is miserable, drizzle and flat lands and stringy, mournful conifers; there’s nothing between Calais and Reims that Athos would mourn if the whole lot was levelled by a hurricane. If it were up to him he’d let the rebels keep their damp muddy country without a moment’s regret, but the king, apparently, feels differently. Unfortunately the upstart group are unusually well armed for a rabble of peasants. And here they are.

There’s a scuffle of running steps parting the scrub, and Athos struggles to focus properly as Aramis’ voice murmurs something and another hand brushes at the blood drying in the stubble on his cheek.

‘Six of them to the north,’ Aramis is saying, soft and rushed, ‘they’ve sent the others to circle round ahead of us.’

‘D’Artagnan got out?’ Porthos asks, and Aramis shrugs, holding himself lopsided with one shoulder hunched.

‘So far as I could see, depends if he got to the road before they cut him off. Athos, follow my finger. Has he been sick?’ he adds, eyes flicking back to Porthos, who shakes his head. It’s all Athos can do to aim his eyes in their general direction.

Hubris got them here, not all of it their own. The ambush was well-planned, and even if it didn’t catch them entirely by surprise – they are never, never unarmed – the sheer numbers, and the rebels’ apparently endless ammunition, were more than they’d bargained for. Before long three of them were unhorsed, and Athos was dazed and on his knees blinking blood out of his eyes. Through the ringing in his ears he heard Aramis bellow at d’Artagnan to get out, get help, and he brushed his vision clear in time to see the moment’s agonised hesitation before d’Artagnan swung the horse round, tossed his spare pistol to Aramis, hacked downwards with his sword at the rebel in his way, dug his heels in and galloped away. Aramis took out the man aiming a musket at d’Artagnan’s back, and Porthos grabbed Athos by both arms to hustle him into the trees.

It’s been a while since they last had to make a retreat as undignified as this.

Porthos and Aramis are talking over his head, looking anxious, Porthos occasionally flicking glances back to the edge of the copse.

‘He’s out of it, we gonna carry him?’ Porthos is hissing, casting an uncertain look up and down Athos where he is still leaned against the tree.

‘M’here,’ Athos protests. ‘I – I am alright.’ 

Aramis wrinkles his nose at him sceptically, and Athos snags a handful of his shirt.

 ‘P’thos’s bleeding,’ he informs him, scowling at the slurred way it comes out.

Aramis glances sideways. ‘I know. I’m keeping an eye on him.’

Athos considers the way his jaw tenses as he twists and tightens his fist in Aramis’ shirt. ‘You’re – not moving right.’

Aramis pats him distractedly on the arm. ‘We’ve got to move,’ he murmurs, and Athos tugs on his shirt again, groaning as his vision swirls.

‘Heard a snap when your horse went down.’

 Aramis sighs at him. ‘It’s fine.’

Athos growls, and Aramis tuts loudly in frustration. ‘It hurts like a bastard, but it won’t kill me and there’s nothing we can do for it now. Are you still dizzy?’

 ‘You can’t run like that,’ Athos presses, still gripping tight to his shirt.

 Aramis bares his teeth at him. ‘Yes I can.’ He lays a hand on the side of Athos’ neck. ‘We’re getting out of this, Athos, mm?’

 Porthos is back at their side, and Athos doesn’t remember him leaving. ‘They’re getting close. Time to move.’

 Athos’ head _throbs_ , but he steps away from the tree and doesn’t lose his balance so that’s a small victory.

 Porthos closes a hand around his wrist, frowning. ‘I’ll keep hold of him. Tuck that fucking arm in your jacket, Aramis, you’re gonna make it worse.’

 Running feels like he’s just repeatedly deferring the moment that he falls all the way over, but Porthos pulls him inexorably onwards; behind them, Aramis is running with one hand tucked inside his coat and the other holding a loaded pistol.

 Running makes his whole body throb in time with his head. The light hurts, and the endless identical stringy trees make him feel like he’s at the centre of a child’s spinning toy.

 A root catches at his toe and he thumps to his knees; he’s throwing up before he realises he’s fallen, and Porthos almost pulls him over because he can’t stop himself fast enough. There’s a hand on his back between his shoulder blades, and as soon as he’s stopped retching he’s hauled up by the armpits and staggers forward again.

 Porthos shoves him down again in a ditch behind a tree; the best shelter they can find in this miserable flat country. It’s a moment or two before Aramis joins them, or he thinks it is, his sense of timing has got loose and uncertain with the headache.

 Aramis skids down beside them and mutters something to Porthos before he takes Athos’ face in his hand and frowns at his eyes. ‘He’s still not focusing too well,’ he says softly, looking right at Athos but apparently not talking to him. His fingers are cool, though; Athos concentrates on that, it makes his head feel like it’s _still_ for the first time since whatever it was hit him.

 He blinks slowly. The others stay nearby, Aramis fussing over Porthos’ bleeding arm. His ears are still ringing a bit, but he hears the footsteps in the second after he sees the other two tense, so his hearing can’t be too bad. Porthos pushes him down as Aramis crawls forward, pistol already extended as he approaches the edge.

 The thing is, even addled as he is Athos has the tactical brain to know that if Aramis has to fire, they’re screwed. There are too many of them, and they only have the one shot, _maybe_ two if Aramis can reload fast enough with only one hand working properly, but as soon as their pursuers are close enough for the pistol to be impractical, well, none of them are winning a swordfight in this state.

 Well, perhaps against a red guard.

 Aramis shuffles backwards. ‘They’ve passed, for now,’ he whispers, tucking the pistol into the back of his belt so he can press his fingers to Athos’ temple again.

 ‘Gotta keep moving,’ Porthos rumbles. He’s looking washed out, and Athos thinks with some alarm about the blood soaking his sleeve.

Aramis casts an unhappy look between the two of them, but Porthos is already wobbling to his feet, so he shifts onto one knee and grips Athos by the upper arm to guide him upright too.

Athos leans into Aramis’ good shoulder and hisses, ‘he’s still bleeding.’

‘I know, Athos,’ Aramis says hoarsely, eyes on Porthos’ arm. There is something tied around it – something that could perhaps once have been part of Aramis’ sash – but it’s soaked through. Porthos must be able to hear them but doesn’t turn around, maybe because he’s too dizzy to look around that fast.

A gunshot splits the quiet and Athos’ head throbs viciously in sympathy. He flinches so hard that Aramis turns to him in a panic thinking he’s been hit. Porthos yells, alarmed, up ahead, and there’s a shriek like a triumphant hunting call. Aramis lets go of Athos to reach for the pistol, shucking his other arm out of his jacket to clumsily grip his sword hilt.

Porthos lurches sideways as four men rush to block the path ahead; Aramis fires and Athos’ head sears again with the roar of the pistol so close. Porthos is fencing someone, but another man is moving in behind him and there are two more hurrying out of the trees, pistols aimed; before Aramis can even fumble his blade out with his weakened arm Athos is shaking his head.

‘We yield,’ he yells, and even the sound of his own voice is agony to him. He squeezes Aramis’ arm, stumbles forward a step. ‘Porthos, stand down! We yield.’

Aramis’ mouth tightens, but he drops the sword and the spent pistol.

‘Sorry,’ Athos rasps, as the rebels close in, pistols pointed at the three of them from every side.

‘It’s fine,’ Aramis mutters. ‘You’re right.’

 There are two men reaching for Porthos to take his weapons and he hurls them down in bitter frustration, slowly going to his knees with his empty hands spread. The two of them do the same several paces back, and the rebels move in. One of them grabs Aramis’ arms roughly to yank them behind his back and he winces at the tug on whatever’s cracked in his arm or shoulder. He’s looking at Athos in alarm, and Athos sees fury flash on his face and hears his shout, sharp and urgent, ‘ _Don’t_ hit him, he’s-‘

 And nothing, after that.

 

*  


The cell is dingy and damp, like a lot of cells Porthos has seen in his time. The chains are excessive; he seems to have got the lion’s share of them. Aramis at his side is chained at the wrists and Athos seems to be as well, though he’s across the room and hasn’t moved yet since they’ve been in here. Porthos can hardly move at all, the way he’s locked tight to the wall, and his arm is throbbing hot and sick, and fuck it, he’s _dizzy._

 It’s a while before anyone takes any notice of them, but eventually they’ll either want to ask them questions or make an example of them, it’s just a matter of time.

 They need d’Artagnan to get here with backup, and they need him _now._ Aramis is quiet; Porthos thinks he’s praying.

 A man slouches in scratching his chin and looking curious. He doesn’t look like any official interrogator, just some foot soldier wanting to look in on the prize catch.

 ‘Afternoon, musketeers,’ he says casually, squinting at each of them in turn. Porthos says nothing, and Aramis just looks up with every appearance of calm and patience. ‘Not so fancy, now,’ says the visitor, smirking, and gets no further response.

 ‘Not so chatty, either.’

Aramis flicks his eyes sideways and Porthos meets them, expressionless.

‘You’ll be talking soon enough, all sorts of plans they’re making for you.’

 Aramis smothers a yawn behind his hand with ostentatious politeness. Another guard wanders in to join them, tossing a knife in one hand.

 The guard prods Athos with his boot. ‘Not much point hanging on to the one who’s too out of it to tell us anything coherent.’

 Aramis lurches up onto his knees with a clatter of chains.

 ‘Gentlemen, I’d advise against rash action. He is perhaps your most valuable hostage, of the three of us.’ Porthos raises his eyebrows, because fuck’s sake, Aramis is clearly making this up as he goes along. He squeezes Porthos’ wrist in apology.

 ‘How’s that? One musketeer shit is the same as another,’ the guard says conversationally, now holding a limp Athos by the arm.

 ‘He’s from a good family,’ Aramis offers with a one-sided shrug. The guard notices how he’s protecting the shoulder and drops Athos to stride over and kick Aramis hard in the chest. Porthos growls, but he can’t move to intercept; Aramis lets his breath out in a shocked bark and crashes onto his back. The guard stands over him and grinds his heel into the broken collarbone.

‘Good family, eh? Unlucky sod to end up with the smarmy whoreson shit and the gutter-rat brute, then, eh?’

Aramis doesn’t answer, teeth gritted at the ceiling.

‘Hey?’ the guard demands again, shifting his boot to the side of Aramis’ face and forcing him to turn his head towards Athos, straining the shoulder worse. Aramis gasps out a Spanish curse, and the guard releases him with a laugh and a kick to the ribs.

‘Spanish, too? They’ll take any scum in the King’s guard these days.’

He leaves, and Aramis pants there on the floor, head still wrenched to one side. Porthos struggles, but the chains are tight and his arm screams, there’s no room for manoeuvre.

 ‘Aramis?’ he croaks, then, no more hopefully, ‘Athos?’

‘I’m  - fine,’ Aramis pants, still not moving. Athos groans lowly, letting his head sink further towards his knees. If he’s awake, he’s no more responsive than when he’s on the point of passing out from wine. Porthos frowns from one to the other.

‘Look at me, then,’ Porthos says wretchedly, shuffling a little more upright and stopping because fuck, his _arm_.

Aramis breathes raggedly. ‘Huh?’

‘F’you’re fine, look at me, cause you’re not looking too good from here, mate.’

He huffs a pained laugh, and Porthos sees it in his jaw, how it hurts him to move his neck. 

‘How’s the arm?’ he croaks, squinting at Porthos in the low light. There’s mud on his face from that bastard’s boot.

Porthos grunts noncommittally, glancing again at Athos. He’s not moving, still woozy with concussion and only half aware of what’s going on, and Porthos himself is starting to feel the lightheadedness that comes of too much blood loss.

‘D’Artagnan got out,’ Aramis rasps. ‘Back up on the way.’

Porthos nods, because both of them have doubts but airing them now won’t help anyone.

He tries to shift again, and the chains clink around him. He huffs in frustration, and Aramis quirks half a smile.

‘They seem to have mistaken you for a rhinoceros, _mon ami_.’

Porthos grunts, reluctantly amused. ‘Yeah maybe.’

Aramis starts shuffling himself to sit up, eyes squeezed closed as he moves.

‘Can you get to him?’ Porthos asks – as much as he hates to make Aramis keep moving when it’s so obviously hurting him, Athos’ continued silence is cause for concern. Not that their leader is ever particularly verbose. Even for him, though, this is quiet.

 Aramis grunts affirmatively, making it to his knees and crawling forwards. ‘Athos? Need you to open your eyes, now.’

Athos groans and rolls his head back; alarmed, Aramis raises his chained arms to cushion the back of his friend’s head with a hand. Athos hisses in pain and sluggishly blinks his eyes open.

‘God,’ he grumbles. ‘Tell me we didn’t end up in the Wren.’

‘It’s worse than that, I’m afraid,’ Aramis says gently, and he releases Athos’ head carefully so that he can rattle his chained wrists at him.

 ‘Ah. Now I remember.’

 Athos blinks and focuses properly for the first time since the fight, and Porthos wilts with relief: despite the fact that Athos greets the world with a groan like a dying man, he’s just so damned glad that he’s coherent again.

 ‘The rebels,’ Athos growls. ‘I’m already regretting that surrender.’

‘It’s alright,’ Aramis says, shuffling himself laboriously to sit beside him. ‘I know you hate the North. I can’t imagine this trip has done much to change your mind.’

 ‘Every time I come to this thrice-damned region someone hits me on the head,’ Athos complains. ‘Where’s Porthos?’

‘Here,’ Porthos croaks.

‘You were bleeding.’

Porthos is impressed that he remembers; Athos hasn’t exactly been with it since he took that musket stock to the temple.

‘S’alright,’ he says, though he’s increasingly aware that it isn’t, not really, and both of his companions look sceptical.

‘Have they tried to interrogate us yet?’ Athos asks, sounding irritated with himself for having been unconscious.

‘No. They dropped in to call us some rude names and strut around a bit, but nothing serious, just yet,’ Aramis tells him, which is, Porthos thinks, more or less accurate, albeit an edited version.

‘They’ll let us stew until morning then, most likely.’

Aramis nods and smiles wanly. It’s something to hope for, since it’ll give d’Artagnan more time to get help. 

‘You’re alright?’ he says softly to Athos.

 ‘I’d like a drink,’ Athos says.

 Aramis snorts. ‘That, at least, is as normal then.’ He starts shifting again, and Porthos growls at him.

 ‘Where you going now?”

 ‘I’m coming over to look at your arm.’

 ‘What’re you gonna do for it here?’ Porthos objects, because he doesn’t want to watch Aramis shuffle and wince his way across the cell again. It does him no good, obviously; there’s no dissuading Aramis from mother-henning when he decides it’s needed. He makes it across the room without obviously flinching and lowers himself down beside him to frown and prod at the sword cut above his elbow.

 Porthos watches him for a bit, looking at the top of his bowed head and trying to ignore the way the hot ache in his arm peaks at his touch.

 ‘D’Artagnan could be here by tomorrow,’ he murmurs conversationally.

 Aramis presses his arm in agreement. ‘Most likely,’ he whispers. Athos, across the room, narrows his eyes at them and says nothing.

 

*

 

None of them sleeps much. Athos dozes, but he manages to respond every time Aramis hisses at him to wake up, so he’s as satisfied as he can be that Athos’ head wound is not killing him. Porthos is restless, which is obvious from the cacophony of rattling chains every time he tries to shift position, God only knows why these rebels have decided he needs such excessive restraint compared to the others. Porthos must have landed some fearful blows in the fight that led them here.

Aramis is grateful for that too. He’s worried about Porthos’ blood loss, and sleep looks too much like death in this light.

 He knows their captors will be here in the morning to wrest information from them any way they can. He bears out some foolish hope that d’Artagnan might be here in time to spare them the worst of it, but it’s a long ride back to the camp and not an easy one, and it takes time to report to the captain and muster troops. They’ll be here for a while, most likely.

Athos can’t be subjected to any more blows to the head, or he really might not wake this time. And God knows, Porthos can’t lose any more blood. Aramis knows he has to keep the focus of the interrogation on himself.

The footsteps in the hallway rouse them a few hours after sunrise. The man who strolls into the cell is one he hasn’t seen before, though the more roughly dressed men who loiter by the walls are both familiar from yesterday’s encounters.

‘Which of you is in charge?’ demands the newcomer, scowling impatiently at each of them in turn. 

Athos tilts his chin up, somehow managing to be haughty while slumped in the corner of a cell on the filthy floor. ‘We are king’s musketeers,’ he drawls. ‘You are tempting a great deal of trouble by threatening us.’ 

The rebel snorts. ‘Yes, and a fearsome bunch you make, chained and bloodied at my feet.’ He kicks idly at Athos’ ankle, looking lazily around the cell to include Porthos and Aramis in his condescension. ‘Lapdogs to a weak and fickle tyrant.’

‘Your pitiful rebellion is in its last days, Monsieur,’ Aramis says levelly. ‘You must know that.’

Athos is scowling at him; he ignores it. The rebel stalks over and takes a handful of Aramis’ hair to haul him up onto his knees. He hisses angrily at the indignity, and Porthos growls behind him. 

‘Is that so?’ The rebel shakes Aramis hard, taking his throat with the other hand. ‘You would know something about that, would you?’

Aramis meets his gaze obstinately, but stays silent. He doesn’t need to say anything else now; he’s successfully made himself the centre of attention. One of his talents, he thinks, though the consequences have often been far more pleasurable in the past.

‘Leave him,’ Porthos growls, and Athos hisses some objection as well, but the rebel has made his choice now and any objections will only encourage him. One of the guards hauls a chair in and Aramis is roughly thrown into it – it makes a change from sitting on the floor, at least, though he suspects he is only afforded this luxury so that his captors don’t need to strain their backs bending down to hit him. The chain between his hands is unlocked in order to be repositioned behind him, looped through the slats of the chair back and tugging his arms uncomfortably backward.

‘Now, musketeer. What do you know of our uprising? How many more of you were deployed here? Who is leading them?’

Aramis keeps his gaze as steady and insolent as he can. The fist to his jaw is not unexpected, nor even particularly hard, and he tries not to let his head move too much because every movement hurts like the devil in his injured shoulder.

They are no skilled interrogators: they try too soon to escalate things by hitting him in the ribs with fists and then with a crude club, and when they get no response from him they get frustrated and sloppy, and then they swiftly lose their tempers.

Aramis spits a mouthful of blood into the leader’s eye and he staggers back, disgusted, and pulls a pistol on him.

 ‘I’ll teach you to fucking disrespect me,’ he roars, the pistol trembling in his hands, and Aramis’ vision is slightly blurred now but the man looks almost drunk with fury the way he’s shaking. It does mean that if he fires, the ball could end up anywhere, and Aramis doesn’t relish that thought.

 ‘Put the gun down immediately,’ Athos is saying imperiously from the floor – it makes Aramis want to laugh sometimes, there’s never been a time in Athos’ whole life when he hasn’t expected everyone to do as he says if they know what’s good for them.

 This rebel, though, is riled beyond listening to reason, bloody spittle dripping off his chin. ‘He won’t talk? I don’t fucking care if he fucking talks…’

The other two rebels have retreated to the doorway again, slightly uncertain – perhaps the orders from higher up are not to kill them yet. Aramis just watches the wild movements of the pistol barrel and tries to calculate where the ball will hit and how likely it is to kill him. A morbid occupation to be sure – he has no wish to die, especially not here – but he’ll take what distractions he can from the way his shoulder screams.

There’s some disturbance outside the cell, what sounds like fighting, shouts and a pistol going off. The amateur interrogator only gets more agitated.

‘Are there more of you? More fucking musketeers…’

‘Put down the pistol,’ says Athos, calm like he’s commenting on the weather, ‘and perhaps we can discuss it.’

‘Athos,’ Porthos says urgently.

 ‘Put it down,’ Athos insists, harsher, making it an order.

‘I’ll put a bullet in your revolting friend here unless you tell me _now_.’ The man is still wiping fitfully at the blood on his face with his free hand, and the sounds of battle outside are getting closer. With luck, they’ll only need to stall them a few moments more. The trouble is, this bastard knows he’s running out of time.

 ‘ _Athos! Aramis!_ ’

That, thank God, is d’Artagnan bellowing down the hallway for them fit to wake the dead; clearly he has forgotten that Athos has a headache. 

The guards in the doorway rush out to confront the attacking musketeers. In the cell, the rebel with the gun realises he’s out of time and aims for the head, Aramis makes a swift calculation and throws himself sideways, chair and all. Landing on his broken shoulder shocks him so badly he wonders if he might have preferred to be shot, but the shot goes wide, harmlessly into the wall.

Porthos is yelling his name but Aramis can’t turn his head to reassure him and his throat feels too dry for speech. He listens to his voice, and Athos’ voice, and tries to remember to breathe.

 

*

 

D’Artagnan almost trips in his hurry to get into the cell after the gunshot goes off; he registers his three missing friends all on the floor and restrained and the one remaining rebel, holding a smoking gun. D’Artagnan doesn’t know who has just been shot, but he’s not giving this bastard the benefit of the doubt: he grabs the still-hot barrel of the pistol and yanks it towards himself, meeting the man’s sudden lurch forward with a fist to the throat and swinging him around to smack his head hard against the wall. He crumples instantly – he doesn’t think he’s dead, but he doesn’t much care either. He drops his limp body to one side and staggers forward, looking frantically around the space.

He meets Athos’ eyes first. ‘Better late than never,’ Athos says flatly, and d’Artagnan is too pleased to hear him talking coherently to be offended. ‘See to Aramis.’

He nods and turns quickly. Porthos is chained tight to the opposite wall like he’s liable to savage anything that comes near with tooth and claw, and at the moment he does look like he might – eyes fixed on Aramis, who is lying on his side chained to a broken chair and wheezing like he’s forgotten how to breathe.

He takes Aramis by the arm and tries to turn him, but the remnants of the chair and the chains make it hard to move him.

‘Is he hit?’ Porthos demands.

D’Artagnan looks up at him in alarm, then back to Aramis. There isn’t much blood anywhere, so far as he can see, but Aramis’ panicked breathing _sounds_ like he’s been shot. ‘I don’t think so,’ he says, and lunges for the unconscious man by the door because there’s a set of keys on his belt.

He runs through half the ring of keys before he manages to release Aramis from his twisted position under the splintered chair, and finally, once his weight isn’t all pressing down on one contorted arm, he does start to breathe more normally and looks him in the eye to nod gratefully when d’Artagnan pleads with him to say something. He settles Aramis on his back, gasping but waving him away dismissively with his good hand, and makes for Porthos next, struggling with the sheer weight of chains laid on him and worrying about his unnatural pallor. Porthos hisses at him to shoo him away and he turns at last to Athos, starting to feel aggrieved that none of them have seemed remotely pleased to see him yet.

 Once Athos’ wrists are free he reaches immediately for his own head, scowling. He glowers at d’Artagnan and crawls shakily towards the other two in the middle of the floor, looking ready to keel over.

The three of them are bruised, battered and covered in mud, blood and grime, and d’Artagnan is exhausted himself, but he drags himself out of the cell to the table in the hallway where he remembers seeing a pitcher of water. He digs through the clutter of weapons and neglected food until he finds two cups; he can’t find a third but he doesn’t imagine they’ll mind sharing.

He staggers back to find them all sitting in a huddle on the floor, Aramis poking at the side of Athos’ head.

‘I’ve got water,’ he rasps.

 Aramis looks up, smiling wanly. ‘Thanks. And I applaud your excellent timing.’ His voice is completely gone, it’s barely audible, but d’Artagnan returns the smile and passes him a cup of water, which he manages to grip in his left hand; his right is limp in his lap.

He passes the other cup to Porthos, since he’s obviously lost blood, and gets a grunt of thanks in return. Aramis sips cautiously and passes his own cup to Athos, who scowls and mutters ‘I’d prefer wine.’ 

‘Don’t mind him, d’Artagnan,’ Porthos says. ‘He’s got a headache. What he means to say is, thank you for the rescue.’

‘Thanks,’ d’Artagnan retorts. ‘I’m almost fluent in hungover Athos by now.’

‘God, I’d _love_ to be hungover,’ Athos grumbles, but his hand on Aramis’ wrist is gentle.

 ‘All well here?’ Treville calls, appearing in the doorway. His eyes rake over his three captured men, all of them looking rather pathetic at present.

‘All well, captain,’ d’Artagnan says, catching his eye and managing a very tired smile. Treville looks from the battered inseparables to d’Artagnan and nods stiffly.

 Everyone’s alive, at least, and together. It’s enough, for now.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plotless epilogue.

D’Artagnan bitterly regrets telling the captain he could handle this.

 All of them insist that they can walk perfectly well, and he doesn’t trust any one of them not to keel over. When they make it to the outer door Athos flinches violently against the light and staggers sideways; Aramis reaches for him only to shudder when the movement rubs wrong against one of his many bruises.

D’Artagnan is carrying all of their gear because he refused to let them buckle the extra weight back on, and as sleep-deprived and saddle-sore as he is, he’s really feeling the strain. He isn’t going to complain, though. He doesn’t think they realise how _awful_ they all look, out here in the daylight the bruises are developed dark, and he’s not seen Porthos look that grey in the face since the time he was hit with an axe and nearly lost his arm.

 Treville has rallied the rest of the musketeers and a handful of rebel prisoners, including the man d’Artagnan knocked out after he fired that pistol in the cell. Athos gives him a calmly withering look as he trudges past. Porthos glares at him and issues a soft threatening grunt that makes the man squeak and flinch comically. Aramis favours him with a predatory smile. D’Artagnan sighs, and makes bets with himself over which of them is going to pass out first.

 They wait sitting on the wall by the horses while the Captain and the others deal with the prisoners and make the site secure. When Treville makes his way over to them he sees them shifting and snaps ‘ _Don’t_ stand up. For God’s sake.’

 Athos looks sullenly uncomfortable at the idea of reporting to the captain while slumped on a wall, but Porthos and Aramis just lean against one another, tired and relieved.

 ‘Report,’ Treville sighs, mouth tightening as he takes in their bruises.

 Athos clears his throat. ‘We were ambushed three leagues north of Reims. We were outnumbered, so d’Artagnan rode for back up. We retreated into the trees. They overtook us.’ He casts a sideways look at Porthos and Aramis to see if they’re going to dispute or add anything. Aramis smiles wearily and Porthos shrugs. ‘The rest you know,’ Athos concludes in the same flat hoarse tone.

 Treville raises an eyebrow at him. ‘Injuries?’

 Athos puffs out his cheeks and gives his comrades another sideways glance.

 ‘Athos took a musket stock to the head,’ Porthos cuts in. He tips his head towards Aramis, who is all but dozing on his shoulder. ‘He broke something when his horse went down, and they worked him over pretty good in there too. I got cut on the arm, but it’s stopped bleeding.’

 Treville nods, folding his arms. ‘I’m putting all of you on leave for a week. Take your time getting back to Paris. You too, d’Artagnan.’

 D’Artagnan looks up in surprise, blinks, and nods. Treville gives him a serious look. ‘You did well today.’

 He gapes for a moment, and stops when he realises that Porthos is watching him in amusement. ‘Thank you, Captain,’ he croaks.

 Treville looks back to Athos.

‘There’s an inn in the village to the south. Go and get some rest, for God’s sake.’ He frowns at Aramis, who still hasn’t spoken. ‘Do you need a physician?’

 Aramis blinks and achily rouses himself from Porthos’ shoulder. He gives Athos a critical look, and twists his mouth unhappily as he looks back at Porthos. ‘Possibly,’ he rasps; the water clearly hasn’t done much for his raw throat. ‘My kit was in the saddlebags.’

 ‘If we can recover your horses, I’ll have someone bring it to you. And I’ll send a physician to you at the inn.’ He gives them one more collective glare. ‘Dismissed.’

 

*

 

Getting to the inn is painful and difficult, even with the old cart that someone finds behind the house and rigs up for them. Athos drives it, squinting against the light, and Porthos sits beside him in case the head injury makes him veer off the road and land them all in the ditch. Aramis and d’Artagnan sit in the back, and Aramis distracts himself from the way the bumpy road makes his broken bones rattle by flicking bits of straw from the cart bed at his young comrade every time he turns away.

 ‘He’s not fit to be driving,’ d’Artagnan hisses to him conspiratorially. D’Artagnan is horribly agitated over the state the three of them are in; it’s making Aramis exhausted watching him.

 ‘It’s not far,’ he croaks, smiling at him placidly.

 It isn’t far, but his bones hurt so badly by the time they arrive that it’s all he can do to keep breathing while d’Artagnan helps him stagger off the cart and into the taproom.

 The innkeeper looks at Aramis’ battered form and squares his shoulders at them. ‘I don’t want any trouble,’ he says.

 D’Artagnan grips tighter at Aramis’ waist and elbow. ‘We are king’s musketeers, and we require shelter,’ he says, anger quivering in his tone. Aramis hears the door slam as Athos and Porthos join them, and the man looks from one to the other, notes the pauldrons and the weapons and folds his arms, nodding slowly. ‘Musketeers, eh? You here for the rebels?’

 ‘They’re dealt with,’ d’Artagnan says flatly.

 The innkeeper considers this. ‘Good riddance,’ he says eventually. ‘Bad for business. I’ve a room upstairs, it’s on the house.’

 Aramis is vaguely aware of d’Artagnan thanking the innkeeper and asking him for food and drink, and then they shuffle together for the stairs. Getting _up_ the stairs is a miserable experience: d’Artagnan keeps apologising to him and this is ridiculous, there’s nothing wrong with his _legs_ , but every step sends shocks through his ribs.

 D’Artagnan deposits him on the edge of one of the beds and goes to take an armful of blankets and firewood from the innkeeper. The others stagger in, holding on to one another for balance. Aramis hauls his head up and watches them make their way across the room.

 ‘Porthos, come here and take your shirt off,’ he manages to croak out of his abused throat. It’s irritating how pathetic he sounds; Porthos gives him a look that’s half amused and half worried, but he comes over obediently and starts peeling off his jacket.

 ‘Look like shit,’ Porthos tells him casually, throwing his jacket over the end of the bed.

 Aramis grins at him and gives him the finger, and starts picking the sleeve of Porthos’ shirt off the dried blood on his arm. ‘You seeing straight, Athos?’ he calls – or tries to, it comes out raspy and thin.

 Athos grunts something incomprehensible and flops down opposite them, dropping his head into his hands. ‘Physician’ll be here soon,’ he mumbles.

 ‘Well, he can look when I’ve finished,’ Aramis croaks, eyes on the livid cut in Porthos’ arm. ‘You’re lucky this isn’t infected.’

 ‘Yeah, lucky me,’ Porthos grumbles.

 D’Artagnan finishes setting the fire and sits beside Athos, passing him a glass of wine. It won’t help his headache, but none of them comment as he takes a deep swallow.

 

*

 

Aramis insists on cleaning and stitching the cut before the physician even arrives, arguing in his ravaged voice that it’s been left untended long enough, and they all know he can do it better than most physicians anyway. He sends d'Artagnan to requisition needle and thread from the innkeeper and then sits at his side, intent and focused, to work on it. Still, Porthos would have stopped him if he thought he could, because he’s all hunched up around his fucked-up shoulder and breathing funny on those battered ribs.

The physician arrives about an hour later, little bearded man with spectacles and a leather case; he looks legitimate. He gives Aramis’ stitches an approving look and gives Porthos some noxious-smelling mixture to put on his arm, and then he peers at Athos’ head and into his eyes and tells him not to drink any more wine, advice which will be soundly ignored.

When he finally turns to Aramis, he asks him to take his coat and shirt off and it quickly becomes apparent that he can’t. Porthos helps him, shuffling behind him on the bed, pulling it off the good arm first so it can be eased very gently off the bad one. He’s behind him so he doesn’t see the state of him immediately, but d’Artagnan’s eyes go huge and round and he splutters, ‘ _Christ_ , Aramis.’ Athos is frowning at him – not the disgruntled headache-induced, I’m-surrounded-by-idiots frown that he’s been wearing all day, but a wince of self-recrimination.

 ‘It looks worse than it is,’ Aramis croaks.

 ‘Fuck you, Aramis,’ Porthos tells him gently, shuffling back to let the physician get to him.

 Aramis sits fairly patiently and doesn’t react much as the doctor prods at his shoulder and his ribs, but when the man suggests bleeding to bring the swelling down he snaps, ‘No.’ He looks up, and adds, more gently, ‘Thank you.’

 The doctor looks to Athos for confirmation because he clearly has decided he’s in charge of them, and Athos says harshly, ‘If he says no, you’re not bleeding him.’

Disgruntled, the doctor says all he can suggest is wrapping it in cold cloths and resting, and grumpily adds that the cracked rib could easily puncture his lung if he doesn’t rest it properly. ‘And there’ll be nothing anyone can do for you, if that happens.’

 ‘What a nice man,’ Aramis says, once he’s left.

D’Artagnan follows him down the stairs and comes back with a bucket of cold water from the well, and with Aramis directing he wraps the purple-mottled shoulder with wet rags. Porthos watches Aramis and wonders how bad he already was _before_ he decided to make himself a target for that sadist.

The captain drops in himself just before dusk on his way back to Paris, bearing Aramis’ saddlebag with his various herbs and concoctions.

 ‘I gather you frightened the doctor away,’ he says, wearing the long-suffering expression that Porthos, Athos and Aramis are very familiar with.

 Aramis smiles innocently.

 ‘Fine then. Take care of one another. I’ll see you in a week.’

 Porthos salutes that. They’ll take care of one another. It’s what they always do.

 

*

 

They sleep, top to toe, sharing blankets and careful around one another’s injuries. Or at least, Porthos and Aramis sleep. Athos stares at the ceiling and broods and listens to them breathe.

It’s a while before he realises that d’Artagnan isn’t sleeping either. He thinks about that, and thinks around the throb in his head that _both_ of them brooding is making the room stuffy, and eventually he hauls himself into a sitting position and meets his eyes in the dim light.

‘Stop thinking,’ he says quietly. ‘You’re keeping me awake.’

 D’Artagnan smirks at the ceiling. ‘My apologies.’

 He sits in silence for a while and listens to his two friends breathing in the next bed.

 ‘Sorry I left you in that fight,’ d’Artagnan whispers. Athos blinks at him in astonishment. For a moment he can’t think of any response at all.

 ‘We’d all be dead if you hadn’t,’ he says flatly.

 D’Artagnan wrinkles his nose. ‘I know. It just – didn’t feel very honourable.’

 Athos considers that, frowning at the ceiling. They often forget how new to this d’Artagnan still is, and how it actually wasn’t that long ago he was a child hearing stories about the gallantry of the musketeers. And although they’re all recovering now, he recognises that the events of the last two days have been pretty grim, and they haven’t given much thought to d’Artagnan in the midst of all this.

 ‘You saved all our lives, d’Artagnan,’ he says, just stating facts, without inflection. ‘We’re good at looking out for one another, but the fact remains that if it had just been the three of us, we would probably all be dead.’

 D’Artagnan shifts awkwardly on the mattress.

 ‘It could happen again any day,’ Athos adds thoughtfully. ‘You don’t always get the option of doing the honourable thing.’

 D’Artagnan thinks about that, and then laughs quietly. ‘You’re terrible at cheering people up,’ he says.

 Athos snorts. ‘I’m aware.’

 He listens to d’Artagnan’s breath even out and lengthen. His head aches, but he trusts that it’ll be better in the morning.


End file.
